Searching for Fine
by Dayja
Summary: Five times someone tried to "prove" to Sherlock that he wasn't actually asexual, and the one person to whom it didn't matter.
1. 1  Mummy

Title: Searching for Fine

Author: Dayja

Summary: Five times someone tried to "prove" to Sherlock that he wasn't actually asexual, and the one person to whom it didn't matter.

Rating: teen

Genre: BBC Sherlock fandom (no real spoilers), brief het/slash, …non-sexual slash (not really 'gen' but not a sexual relationship either)

Warnings: non-explicit sexual activities, attempted rape (part 3), some language

Disclaimer: I don't own/am making no money from/am not associated with BBC Sherlock.

Mummy

Mummy's expression was odd. Disappointed, proud, resigned, but something else. Something different, something new, something that shouldn't be there when she came into meetings with his teacher. Sherlock didn't like it. It was a bit like she was laughing at him.

"Sherlock, what did I tell you about teasing your classmates?" Mummy demanded, patient, disappointed, but still laughing in the corner of her eyes.

"Jenny was teasing me first," he answered sullenly, resolutely not kicking at the legs and sitting still like an adult would. At the mature age of seven, Sherlock was far too old to kick his legs. Mycroft never kicked legs.

"Why didn't you come to me if Jenny was teasing you?" Miss Jameson asked, her voice much kinder and far more patient than it usually was when she was talking to Sherlock. Obviously she was showing off in front of his mother so Mummy would think she was a good teacher. She wasn't a good teacher anyway. She was stupid. And she always favored the girls when it came to fights. Jenny always stared it and Sherlock always got in trouble. So he wasn't going to answer her.

"Sherlock." Mummy's voice had a warning tone now. It was familiar and not laughing at him.

"Jenny's a liar," he answered, "She said she'd give me her candy bar if I found who took her ring, only no one took it because it's a stupid plastic thing, and I told her she left it in her art box and she said I stole it and hid it there and she wouldn't give me the candy bar. Jamie said I shouldn't listen to a girl." And that should have made Mummy angry because it was disrespectful to women, and he didn't care because she was being unfair and listening to Mrs. Jameson. Except Mummy wasn't angry. She was exchanging a look with his teacher, the sort grownups sometimes got around children that said they were so clever and knew something the child didn't. Now Sherlock knew what the new look was. He hated it. He gave a kick to his chair leg after all.

"Oh Sherlock," Mummy said, and she ran a hand through his hair, which was allowed because she was Mummy, "I suppose all girls are 'icky'?"

"No," he answered, "Girls aren't icky. They're stupid." And so were boys. They were still exchanging looks.

"Just give it a few more years," Mummy assured him, "I think you'll change your mind."

"No I won't," Sherlock answered, "Not ever, ever, ever." And he glared darkly. They were _still_ smiling secretly. It was the 'how cute' secret smile. He wasn't being cute. And they didn't believe him. Like Mrs. Jameson didn't believe him about the ring and the candy bar. Well, he didn't care. Girls were stupid, and so were boys, and that wouldn't change just because he was older.

And it wasn't fair of Mummy that she didn't believe him. Not even when he stomped his foot.


	2. 2  Victoria

Victoria

"Don't you see! Oh, this is brilliant!" Sherlock's face was alight with passion as the puzzle aligned itself before his eyes, "The alligator, Vic, the alligator will prove it that it was Mr. Hudson and couldn't have been your father, it's the gold watch, you see…oomph!"

And then there was a mouth on his, and it was warm and a bit wet, and soft bits were pressing against his chest and arms were hugging him.

"Mph…Victoria, plea..mph." And alright, cuddling wasn't that bad, it could feel quite nice, but now really wasn't the time. He also didn't quite understand his friend's desire to latch onto him with her lips, no matter that social norms insisted it to be a highly sought after pastime. "Vic, I'm working."

"You solved it," Vic answered, a bit breathlessly, and still clinging. It was beginning to be a bit uncomfortable considering the weather was hot and sticky. "You are brilliant." And her mouth started its suctioning thing again. Her hands slid beneath his shirt, and it was getting far too sweaty for Sherlock's liking.

"Victoria, it isn't solved until the evidence is in the hands of the…oh!"

"It can wait," Vic insisted, her hands sliding somewhere that decidedly was _not_ beneath his shirt. And suddenly cuddling and kissing and groping went from not too bad to completely wrong, and Sherlock shoved just a bit too hard and they fell apart, her onto the bed and himself half on the bed and half onto the floor. He stumbled back up awkwardly, wincing when the bandaged bit of his leg bumped against something hard, and he sat beside her, neither of them quite looking the other in the eye.

"Sorry," Vic spoke first, "I...I didn't mean to go too fast for you."

"It wasn't 'too fast'," Sherlock answered, his voice angrier than he meant it to be but he continued nonetheless, "That implies there is a speed I could go which would eventually lead to…that."

"What, sex?" Vic asked, still looking apologetic even as she teased him.

"Fucking," he answered, and she dissolved into giggles and some of the tension went away. Neither spoke for a moment, though her hand crept up to rub against his arm. Again she was the first to break the silence.

"Are you sure?" she asked, "I mean, maybe…I know it's a bit weird…I'm…"

"It isn't anything to do with that," Sherlock answered, frowning petulantly that she would even think that, "I'm not into girls and I'm not into guys, so it stands to reason I wouldn't be into you either."

"I know how hard it is," Vic said, "When the way you are isn't…isn't the way the world wants you to be. Just…don't give up, Sherlock. Even if you're never ready with me…"

"Time!" Sherlock exploded, "Is that all you women think; if I wait long enough, puberty will kick in and take me over, turning me into another hormone driven animal with nothing better to do than fuck my brains out? I'll suddenly think the size of milk glands should be relevant to the worth of those who possess them, or dissolve into a slobbering, useless heap when a man shakes his arse at me…or should I suddenly decide I want to be manhandled by men who think they are women…"

The pain that burst across the side of his face broke his rant off before it could sink into anything more vicious or cutting. And now Vic had tears in her eyes and he wasn't sure what he was meant to do to fix things.

"Sorry," he said at last, because Mycroft said that was usually what people wanted when they looked like that, angry and weepy and overemotional. Perhaps it was the wrong thing to say because then she was actually crying. Only she threw an arm around him.

"Oh, Sherlock," she said, and she sounded a bit exhausted, "So, what do we need to do to get this evidence."

And what came next was truly brilliant and fantastic, and he didn't need a fumble in the dark to manage it.


	3. 3  Seb

Warning: Attempted Rape

Seb

"So what, are you like, gay?" That question, and variations thereof, was asked of him to the point of tediousness, usually directly after he had dismissed some perceived merits of the opposite sex.

"X, actually," was Sherlock's answer at this particular interval, an answer which was normally met by confusion. He expected this new acquaintance to be no different but he had no intention on explaining himself to him anyway. But Sebastian proved himself to be slightly less ignorant than first appearances would let on.

"Asexual?" And when Sherlock merely gave him a raised eyebrow, Seb continued. "On the Kinsey scale…you're asexual. Ace of spades. Or hearts. Or no hearts. You look the type to break hearts." He was rambling now, just filling Sherlock's silence with what should have been nervous chatter. But there was something in his expression, something uneasy that Sherlock couldn't quite identify, but it gave an impression of control which belied his speech.

"Non-sexual," Sherlock said at last, because asexual always brought to his mind bacteria and fungi and made him feel as though he were expected to clone himself.

"I'm number one myself," Seb continued, his eyes considering his new housemate in a slightly predatory manner which gave the impression he was higher than a one on the scale when it came to considering men. Sherlock didn't bother to argue the point.

And over the next few months, Seb did go through a number of girlfriends, having an annoying inclination to bring them back to their dorm. They'd sit with him at the breakfast table in the morning and Seb would make the occasional suggestive comment about what had happened the night before. Which was sometimes quite true but not always.

"You did not have sex with her last night," Sherlock snapped one morning, after having to suffer through George's leering and Seb's latest girlfriend's chatter while he was trying to fix his toast. The others stared at him. So he briefly explained about the arrangements of their clothing, the marks on their skin, and most damning their smell, which smelt of sweat but not sex. The girlfriend didn't seem to care, was giggling annoyingly in fact, though Seb's face had taken on a slightly darker edge. He was looking at him again with that indecipherable look that made Sherlock feel a bit slimy.

"Jealous?" Seb asked, his arm possessively coming around the girlfriend's shoulder and raising an eyebrow suggestively.

"Of not having sex?" Sherlock answered, a bit annoyed because Seb _knew_ he wasn't interested in that, "Not in the least."

"He's got you there!" George crowed, smiling viciously towards the couple. The girlfriend had stopped giggling but she still didn't look put out. She was looking at Sherlock with an expression similar to Seb's, a smile with hidden teeth.

That weekend there was a party. Sherlock was there. He told himself it was because he wanted to observe social interactions and not because his room was feeling empty. And Seb really wasn't too bad for company, even if he did have bad taste in women, even if he did fill him with a nameless uneasy and completely irrational emotion. Seb tended to listen to Sherlock which was more than most of the others did. He asked him questions, about the teachers, about the other students, and seemed impressed with what he came up with. He wasn't a friend. Sherlock wasn't sure what he was.

So Sherlock was at the party and drinking a beer and Seb and his nameless friend hanging off his arm stood with him. She giggled far too much, whenever Sherlock made a comment on the crowd filling the room, swaying to a too loud beat and drinking too much. The atmosphere was sweaty and oppressive and was beginning to give him a headache. Seb noticed; he was slightly more observant than Sherlock's average acquaintance. He suggested they get out of the crowd.

So Sherlock, Seb, and two young women pulled themselves away into an empty room and shut the door. Sherlock didn't even know where the other woman had come from. She told him her name was Ashleigh, and she was careful to spell it out, to show she was unique and interesting. She had already had a bit to drink, as was proved when she stumbled in the room and wound up sprawled across Sherlock's lap and far too clingy.

"So," Ashleigh said as she rightened herself, without removing herself from his lap, "Seb tells me you're a virgin." And she giggled. Sherlock made an attempt to dislodge her, while she seemed equally determined to stay where she was. Seb was no help; he had found his own corner and was now in passionate embrace with the girl he hadn't had sex with the other night. It looked like they wanted to remedy that right then and there, in front of Sherlock and Ashleigh. Sherlock wrinkled his nose in distaste.

"As a matter of fact, I did do my own experimentation," Sherlock answered, and Seb pulled away momentarily from his octopus of choice to give him a sly look.

"Did you really? You've been holding out on us, Sher!"

"Boy or girl?" Ashleigh demanded, her eyes bright and her skin stinking of alcohol, "Did you go all the way or just…you know…"

"I had sex with a woman and someone who most definitely had a dick and balls allowed me to stick my penis up their anus. Does that satisfy your curiosity?" And he finally managed to dislodge her and move away.

"Oh what, like a threesome?" Seb asked, grinning while his eyes roamed over him, "I thought you said you were X-rated!"

"I am," Sherlock answered, annoyed, "It was an experiment. And a mistake." And he had no intention of sharing the story of what was most definitely a mistake. He never should have agreed, no matter that Vic kept offering, it hadn't been good for either of them. Vic needed someone to tell her she was special and good and perfect, not someone to fumble awkwardly and barely reach completion and say the entire thing had been unpleasant afterwards.

"You're X-rated?" Ashleigh asked, following him, hands fumbling drunkenly and somehow managing to slide beneath his shirt.

"I'm non-sexual," Sherlock growled, "I don't like sex." Instead of putting it off, her eyes seemed to light up.

"Oh, you poor, poor man," she practically purred, still draping herself against him, "I can show you what you're missing."

"I'm not missing…stop it!" He stumbled back, tripping, and ending up on the floor with Ashleigh tumbling on top of him with a surprised shriek. He yanked her hand free from where it still lingered inside his pants.

"Lighten up, Sher," Seb said, being no help at all, "Just go with it! You always said experiments benefit from repetition…maybe you just need…"

"I don't need anything, I'm just not interested!" Sherlock growled, frustrated with the way this night was turning. He used the wall to help himself to his feet, not caring if he knocked Ashleigh over, and started to make for the door.

"Hey, no need to get rough," Seb said, frowning. He was standing in the way of the door, and not moving.

"Come on, Seb!" Ashleigh called from the floor, "Let's show him what he's missing!" And somehow both of the women were there, on either side of him, and Seb was looking him over with that odd look again, part lust and part something predatory and dark.

"Just go with it, Sher," Seb insisted, "It's for your own good. If anyone ever needed a good shag, it's you." And hands were on him again, touching him in an uncomfortably intimate manner, and suddenly the room was far too small and hot and sweaty and disgusting and spinning completely out of control.

Ashleigh was sliding off her clothes and Seb was hot and solid and messing with Sherlock's buttons and someone's lips were sucking on his neck. Someone was pulling down his pants.

Sherlock panicked. He lashed out, people too close to get a good hit but then his knee caught someone who screamed and hands pulled away, startled. He grabbed up his pants and ran, shoved himself free, and ran. Out the door, back into the press of bodies and drinking and music and lights, ran into the comfortable darkness. Ran until he tripped over something. Someone.

"Wow, watch it," the form on the ground called as he rolled himself up, defensive and defiant and shaking. "Hey, you alright?"

"Yes," Sherlock answered, even though he really, really wasn't, and then, "People are stupid."

"I hear you, man. Society is full of hypocrites and bull shitters. I say fuck them." Sherlock stared at him.

"You're high," he remarked, not his most brilliant observation. But his heart was still racing, and he thought he might be sick any second, and why were people so stupid anyway?

"Only way to go, when the world is being shitty," the form said. It considered him, from his rumpled clothes to his white expression. "Hey, you look like you need this more than I do. Go on, it's on me. Just this once." He was offering something. And it would be stupid, stupid, stupid to accept.

Tonight, Sherlock felt like just this once, he could be stupid.


	4. 4 Donovan part 1

4. Donovan part 1

Sherlock slouched sullenly while Mycroft sat with patronizing posture and ran his eyes over the report.

"I told you I was clean," Sherlock muttered, feeling annoyed that no one took him at his word and even more annoyed that they were perfectly right in not doing so. And Mycroft had no right to look so smug about Sherlock's success. No doubt he saw it as his own.

"Hmm," Mycroft answered, still perusing the data sheet. Sherlock was indeed clean. No sign of drugs, no sign of diseases. "Well. I suppose we should look into opening up some of your funds."

"You do know it is illegal to control wages I earned myself?" Sherlock remarked conversationally, still folded in on himself.

"Is it?" Mycroft answered, seeming distracted still by the papers when Sherlock knew he was nothing of the kind. His sharp eyes finally looked away from the report to take in his brother's form. "I see you're putting on weight at last. Do you need another shopping trip?"

"I see you've been gaining as well. Perhaps I can use your 'skinny' clothes and save you the expense." Mycroft merely gave him a look at that while his assistant typed something into her blackberry. Probably planning a shopping trip. Well, if Mycroft insisted upon clothing him, Sherlock could at least make sure he was clothed well. Then maybe his brother would feel less keen to meddle in his domestic affairs when he saw the bill.

"I don't suppose you've changed your mind on the flat I showed you?" Mycroft asked, after giving him a look which suggested he knew everything Sherlock was thinking. Which made the question all the more ridiculous because he already knew the answer. Sherlock might allow the clothes and even the occasional stocking up of the fridge, but he drew the line at his brother paying for his housing. He wasn't going to be his brother's kept pet. He was free of the drugs and he was free of the institutions and clinics and trial periods, and he would be free of his brother's control. Even if he had to buy his own clothes.

"I'm perfectly happy where I am, thank you," Sherlock answered sharply, feeling oddly pleased at the face Mycroft pulled. It was almost worth staying in the horrible roach infested basement just to see Mycroft's face when he considered it. Well, now that Mycroft was deigning to allow Sherlock his own consulting fees, perhaps he could begin to look for someplace better.

"And how is your consulting business?" Mycroft asked, still far too smug. Sherlock eyed him suspiciously; he wouldn't put it past his brother to be bribing Scotland Yard into letting his baby brother play with their cases. Thankfully, Sherlock had managed to find a DI who seemed to be completely unbribable, if Sherlock's instincts were anything to go by. And completely unmovable. He had certainly been as annoying as Mycroft on the drugs thing, except less condescending and more understanding.

"You have all my pay checks," Sherlock pointed out, "You tell me." Mycroft had nothing to say to that. Finally, the unendurable meeting came to a close. Mycroft ended it by leaving him a wad of cash. It was probably meant as a gesture of trust, but Sherlock found it utterly outrageous all the same, far more reminiscent of paying someone off than endowing them with trust. Sherlock refused to take it when Mycroft held it out, but his brother left it for him anyway when he removed himself. Sherlock glared at it until he received a call.

"There's been a burglary. Burglar broke in, left the safe and the jewelry alone, but took a single painting."

So he left, in a cab. If Mycroft was going to leave him a wad of cash, the least he could do was spend it frivolously. Lestrade was waiting for him in front of the house. He gave him a raised eyebrow at his mode of transportation but he didn't remark upon it. He also wasn't alone.

"Sergeant Sally Donovan," he said with a wave towards the woman at his side who was giving him an assessing look. Sherlock allowed for the usual socially expected greetings and introductions before tuning her out to concentrate on the case.

The case itself turned out simple enough but required some legwork to acquire the necessary proof and by the end of the day all three of them were wandering through a less than pristine part of London. It was not unfamiliar to Sherlock. Not the streets and certainly not the people. It was later, when Lestrade and the new woman were inspecting some graffiti Sherlock had pointed out that he saw him.

He was homeless; you didn't need to be a genius detective to determine that. He was also young, though not young enough to be a concern for social services. Sherlock's first thought that he was repulsive, stinking and ragged and shaking. And very much an echo of himself, or the self he used to be. Sherlock was at once repulsed and drawn; he found himself coming closer until the young man looked up and stared him in the eyes. He read cold desperation, hunger for something which probably went deeper than food, fear. And pride. And Sherlock stared and stared like he was looking into a mirror. And then his hand went to his pocket, to the wad of cash. Mycroft's money that had seemed so heavy and shackling.

The young man had a look in his eyes. Anger and shame. He would take the money because he needed it. Like Sherlock had accepted it. Well, Sherlock refused to be shackled, not to Mycroft and not to strange metaphorical shadows his mind conjured up in strangers. He didn't do charity.

"I have a job for you."

When he returned to Lestrade and the new sergeant they were both staring at him, assessing and judging. Lestrade with a raised eyebrow as though to say 'what was that all about?' and the woman with a look Sherlock found harder to read but that he found slightly unsettling all the same. It jived with memories he didn't want to go into. He'd had enough of remembering the past for that day.

By the end of the day, he had handed away half the cash that his brother had given him and had in theory the eyes and ears of five people working for him. Loyalty is a harder trait to pin down in people than whether they were adulterers or liars or drug addicts with a glance, so perhaps he had simply tossed away half his money to no gain at all except to finance the various addictions of the poor. It was still worth it.

Author's note: This…took me longer than I thought it would. And I haven't even gotten to the bit with Sally yet. The characters haven't been cooperating with the directions I keep trying to herd them, and it's difficult for me to pin down her character. So, I've decided to give you what I have so far and then the rest when I get to it.


	5. 4 Donovan part 2

4. Donovan part 2

After the case wrapped up, Sergeant Donovan invited Sherlock to join her for a drink. This was against the advice of her colleagues; Sherlock had distinctly heard them warning her off of him. The fact that she asked anyway was just interesting enough that Sherlock agreed to go.

It started out awkwardly when she ordered a beer and he ordered a tea which, upon receiving, he decided not to drink after all. She kept giving him looks which seemed heavy with intent, the sort of looks Sherlock had come to associate with flirting. Under other circumstances, Sherlock might have been willing to practice his flirting back, but this wasn't a casual acquaintance and he didn't want to play that game now. And he so hoped her fascination wouldn't turn out to be something so dull as simple attraction.

"So, Sergeant Donovan…" he said after nearly ten minutes of agonizingly dull small talk, another skill he could use some practice in but even he had limits.

"Please, call me Sally," she said, leaning towards him slightly across the table.

"Sally," he said agreeably, leaning slightly forward himself, his gaze intent upon discovering all her secrets, "Why did you invite me here when you were advised against it?" Sometimes, the direct approach could work. It didn't put Sally off at all, either; if anything, she leaned in closer.

"Why did you accept?" she asked in return, her tone light and playful and Sherlock couldn't help but smile in response. Curiosity was a motivation he could appreciate.

"I wanted to…" dissect was probably not a good word to use here, not everyone got his metaphors "…learn about you. I don't understand you yet."

"Well, there you go. I wanted to get to know my new…colleague. Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. You're a hard man to pin down."

"How so?" Sherlock asked, curious to know her assessment of him. She considered him for a moment, her gaze sharp and intelligent.

"You go around by taxi but don't mind legwork in the poorer parts of town. You give your money away to the poor but don't offer to pay for my drinks. You have D.I. Lestrade's respect but even he suggested I'd be better off not asking you out for drinks. From what I've seen, you're smart, blunt to the point of rudeness, generous to the point of naivety, and you seem to be doing very well for yourself as a consulting detective."

"Well observed," Sherlock said, smiling and pleased with the fact that she made an effort at all, "Wrong on at least half your counts, but well reasoned. Smart, I'll give you, blunt, when it suits me, but generous? I take it you deduced this from watching me give money to the homeless."

"What would you call it, then, if not generosity?" she asked, no longer leaning in towards him but not leaning away either, still playing the game.

"Business," Sherlock answered simply, "They're informants. And as for your last point, consulting doesn't pay me at all." And he waited, to see what she made of that.

"You don't get paid?" She was arching her eyebrows, disbelief written across her face.

"Not as such," he answered, still studying her face, "I suppose the money goes somewhere. I have people to handle that for me." He waited to see how she would respond to that, if she would make the correct connections or jump to conclusions or hold out for more information. She leaned in, still smiling pleasantly.

"As I said, naïve with money."

"You didn't say that at all," Sherlock argued, smiling himself because her response to him was new and fascinating. She ordered another beer while Sherlock deigned to take a cautious sip from his tea.

"Is it against your religion?" Sally asked after he declined her offer to buy him something too.

"Alcohol has a deteriorative effect on observation. I don't like being slowed down." He only had one drug of choice, these days, but Sally didn't need to know about that. He was slightly disappointed when she didn't come up with it on her own and ask pointed or leading questions. Instead, they both lapsed into silence.

Just when Sherlock was growing ready to leave, the beginnings of a craving for a cigarette making him antsy, Sally decided to speak again.

"So, Sherlock, I told you about you. What can you tell me about me?"

Sherlock hesitated. People had said this to him before, and they almost never really meant it. They tended to demand it as though it were some kind of magician's trick, and then got angry when he actually performed.

"Really," she said, accurately reading his hesitation, "What've you got." So he told.

He started with the obvious; where she was from as told by her accent, about her flat from the state of her shoes when they first met, before their walking overwrote vital information, and a bit about her schooling from her choice in beer. Then it got a bit less obvious.

"You transferred recently; everyone knows that, what they don't know is about the affair which prompted the move. Someone higher than you, maybe your supervisor, you wanted to break it off, maybe you were caught, maybe he became abusive, more likely he wasn't what you wanted. He got clingy; there was no way to call him on it without outing your relationship, so you decided for a clean break, requested the transfer. And here you are."

Sherlock leaned back then as he waited for her to respond. His posture was part satisfaction, he had read in her expression that he got most of what he said right; the other part was putting himself out of range in case she turned out the type to slap. Some women did that. She didn't though. She just kind of stared, holding her drink tightly.

"How…who told you that?" she said at last. She wasn't smiling anymore.

"You did," Sherlock answered, "You told me yourself, earlier, that you requested the transfer, but you have no reason to move here, no family or friends. If you aren't running to something, you must be running from something. Most probable cause: a relationship gone bad. Or a loss, but you aren't grieving. A divorce could be the answer, but no wedding ring, not even a tan line or indention. So, what kind of relationship would require a person to run away when it's over? An illicit one, one that has to do with work or you could have just changed houses without changing jobs. Simplicity in itself to deduce. Did I get anything wrong?"

For a moment, Sally just stared. Then something changed, something eased.

"He wasn't abusive," she said, leaning in again. She sounded angry, but she wasn't slapping or throwing her drink, and that look which had made him so uncomfortable, the flirting look, wasn't gone. "He just turned out to be a creep, is all." Then she gave him a shrewd, piercing look. "You did miss one thing."

"Oh?" he asked. She leaned in further.

"I'm single now."

And then with a brief smile she downed her drink before standing up. She leaned over him, smelling of alcohol and alleys and deodorant and he found himself leaning back, a bit afraid she meant to kiss him. He couldn't read her at all. But she didn't touch him, just whispered. "And you know what else?"

He shook his head, fighting the urge to push her away. His hand actually trembled a bit with the effort.

"You can pay for the next round." And then the forced intimacy was gone and so was she.

Author's note: Why Donovan's bit insists on drawing itself out over several parts I have no idea. Maybe because I have an actual character I need to aim for, to explain how she went from the first meeting, wherein the prompt I'm following dictates she must show some interest in Sherlock's love life, to her frank and disturbing assessment of Sherlock's character in the series, and that refuses to develop in a single segment. On the plus side, I think I'm slowly getting a better handle on her character…I hope. I'm predicting one more segment for her and then…well, I have a vague idea for Angelo or whatever his name is. And then on to the +1! This story is taking a lot longer to write than I had anticipated when I started it.


	6. 4 Donovan part 3

4. Donovan part 3

"What are you up to?" Anderson demanded, leaning into Sherlock's space in an attempt to be intimidating. Sherlock wasn't quite sure how to respond. He knew Anderson didn't like him and he knew why; to establish his own credentials Sherlock had stepped on the toes of quite a few men and women as he surpassed them in their own fields, at least as far as rapid analysis went, and in the detective business being quick on the deduction could mean the difference between solving or failing a case. But thus far, this antagonism had been restrained to muttering and posturing, nothing physical or threatening implied. What had changed?

"What I'm 'up to' is solving your murder investigation," Sherlock answered, and attempted to slide past him with an air of impatience. Anderson moved to block him though. He was standing too close, far too close, blocking him in against the door frame.

"Listen here, Freak, I don't know what your game with Sally is…"

_A finger was toughing him, too close, too hot, too angry, filling his senses, his nostrils, his ears, touch,sight,taste,heat,sound…_

"Shut up!" Sherlock shoved him away, hard. Anderson stumbled back, a look of surprise on his face, and Sherlock swept past him, forcing himself to breathe calmly, to attune himself back into the moment, into the scene. To ignore the way everyone was staring, making his skin crawl, making him want to forget you shouldn't smoke at crime scenes. Or use other things.

Lestrade chose not to comment, thankfully; he just started giving him details, gesturing other people away with a subtle movement Sherlock was probably meant to not notice. Sally Donovan didn't look inclined to heed the gestures, though. She had a curious look upon her face, something unreadable that Sherlock didn't want to deal with. He ignored her.

The case turned out to be fantastically interesting and he let it fill him completely with puzzles and links, thoughts and logic, until all those emotions, that _feeling_ crawling beneath his skin, slid away, until there was nothing but the case.

He startled when Sally touched his arm, trying to suggest her hypotheses intimately into his ear. She was on the wrong track this time, though, and he shook her off and told her. And of course being wrong is never pleasant, but it didn't explain really why her lips were pinched or why she said something about comparing notes with Anderson and stormed off.

It also didn't explain why one of the nameless forensics team clapped him on the back and said, 'good luck with that one, mate.'

He considered getting Lestrade to explain it, but he didn't really care. There was a case to solve.

Sally cornered him again later, smiling that weird smile she always got when she saw him conversing with the homeless. She was utterly and annoyingly convinced of ulterior and more generous motives when it came to his growing network. As if the only reason to associate with such dregs of society was for _charity_.

"Hey," she suggested, once again standing far too close, "Why don't we take a break. Go for a coffee."

"No thank you," he answered, trying to worm his way away without outright telling her she was too close. He wasn't sure why he didn't tell her. Why he didn't set her clear on everything. He wasn't stupid; he knew what she was after and that this game was going on for far too long to be merely friendly and harmless flirting. It was just…Sally was _interesting_. He wasn't quite ready to lose the occasional evening of bantering when she found out it would never go further. And he didn't want to examine himself or his _feelings_ closely enough to understand why. Far better to pretend to be oblivious and just enjoy the company.

"You're too thin, Sherl," she insisted, "Come on, just a sandwich."

"No thank you," he said again, twitching slightly at the name, "It would slow down my mind."

She frowned at him, but she wasn't a doctor and didn't really know enough to contradict him. She was still standing too close.

"Sherlock," she said, leaning in, he look that of a detective, penetrative and intense.

"Yes?" he answered, not moving, hardly breathing. And he knew this was it. She was going to ask for something he couldn't give. But then she pulled back and suddenly was walking away without a word, and Sherlock had no idea what she had been asking or what he was meant to answer. He watched her go. It was only later, as the case began to be wound up in his head, that he replayed the scene and thought she had wanted him to follow.

He solved the crime but wasn't finished with it because Lestrade generally didn't merely accept his word on the matter. He wanted proof. In the meantime, Sally had decided to be interesting again in all the wrong ways by going off on her own and bringing back the _wrong_ criminal.

Sherlock only even found out about it when Anderson sent him a gloating text.

Sally was smiling at him too, when she saw him storm into the precinct.

"Hey, Stormlocks," she said, "Looks like we're a step ahead of you, for once." Sherlock glared even more fiercely and marched up to her with clinched fists. Her expression didn't waver but Anderson was quick to stand by her, protective. As if he actually expected Sherlock to suddenly attack.

"You have the wrong man," Sherlock growled, ignoring Anderson, "I _told_ you it was the babysitter."

"What, just because he's one of your little pet projects, you don't think he's a psycho killer?" Anderson demanded, and Sherlock couldn't quite stop himself from flinching away when he saw him move in his peripheral vision, his voice far too close.

"His DNA was at the crime scene," Sally added, still confident and smug and attempting to be consoling all at the same time.

"Because he's a THEIF," Sherlock exclaimed, "Not a killer." And then he spun away breathing hard, and why was everyone standing so _close_ to him, no matter that he had been the one to storm up to them in the first place. All this body heat and sweat and anger and smug wrongness was making him dizzy.

"Hey! What's going on here?"

"He's freaking out because we took in one of his little psycho pets," Anderson answered. Sherlock spun back again to face him, and this time it was _him_ in Anderson's space, and _he_ was the one doing the crowding and Anderson was the one cowering away and it was good and right and he clung to this strength and anger with desperate vengeance.

"Sherlock…" Sally's arm rested tentatively on his shoulder, her tone cautious and just a bit frightened, and he shook her off, and Lestrade was giving him a hard, deep look and Anderson looked about to wet himself. Sherlock gave him one last dismissive glare and turned to Lestrade.

"You have the wrong man," he told him, attempting to sound rational and calm and not intoxicatingly infuriated. It didn't help that Lestrade's eyes were darting over him, inspecting him, or that Sherlock suddenly knew exactly what he was looking for.

"I'm not using again!" he screamed, furious and shaking, and people were staring with eyes that pinched his skin and made it crawl.

"Alright," Lestrade said calmly, "Sherlock, my office. Now." And his voice was stern but not angry and at least his office was quiet lacking in Andersons.

Lestrade gave him an assessing look and then told him to sit down and gave him some tea laced with far too much sugar. Sherlock wasn't quite sure why he allowed this or drank the offering except that it was in his hands and Lestrade was still acting calm and listening. So Sherlock explained that they had the wrong man.

Lestrade told him to prove it.

He concentrated on the case and it was truly fascinating and brilliant until Sally managed to corner him. She was assessing him again, frowning slightly as she did, and he was still waiting to see if she ever came to the right conclusions.

"You do know…" she said, her voice hesitant and uncertain like it almost never was when she talked to him, "This case, it's about a family. About those two little girls and their dad."

"Yes…" he answered, uncertain himself where she was going with this. She stepped closer, hand coming up to touch him and it took all his will power to not flinch away, to not tower and growl until she left.

"Sherl…you…what do you want? With me?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"Are we friends?"

Sherlock considered this. "I suppose," he said, cautiously, because he wasn't sure what else to call this thing between them. She wasn't a friend like Vic, but then he certainly did more with her than he'd ever allow with someone who was just a co-worker, like Anderson for instance.

"Sherl…I like you," she said, stepping closer still, and he couldn't quite stop himself from shuffling backwards, though he still didn't flinch away, at least until she leaned and the air stank of flowers and spices and _female_ and her voice was in his ear, "It doesn't have to mean anything more than friendship," she said, voice deep and her breath ghosting over his ear, "Just two friends…having a bit of fun…working out some of that…tension…"

He stepped away, and tried to look stern and strong and not like he was trembling inside and wanted to run away. She watched, something intensely fragile about her despite her implications she wanted nothing more than a friends with benefits deal. He wanted a smoke. He wanted something…no, a smoke, that was all he wanted, no matter what his body thought. So he pulled one out. She was frowning now.

"Sally," he said, carefully, not yet lighting it, just holding it, "I'm…I'm not…interested…in sex. With anyone." She frowned.

"You don't…you're not…oh God, you're gay."

"No," he answered, "I'm asexual." There was something more he should be saying, to explain himself. To explain why he didn't tell her before, long before they reached this awkward stage of not quite being a couple but not quite being just friends. All that came out was, "I'm sorry."

"Sorry?" she answered, and he struggled not to get annoyed at how slow she was being, just repeating him now. It was his fault they had come to this position, after all, even if it was her emotions that insisted upon complicating things.

"You're…you…you don't have sex?"

"I'm asexual, not attracted to men or women," he answered, still bottling him his annoyance at how slow she was being. At least, he tried, until he heard her next words.

"That's not a real thing." At his glare, she felt the need to ask, "Have you tried…?"

"As a matter of fact, yes, yes I did," he answered, "I'm not a blushing virgin, I'm just not interested. In anyone."

"So what, it's not you, it's me?" Sally demanded, and Sherlock frowned in confusion.

"No, the other way around…" he tried to helpfully point out but she only glared more sharply. And then she was marching towards him, assessing, and he found himself backing up until there was a wall and nowhere to go.

"Well, maybe you just…"

_Too close, hands touching, heat, spices and flowers and softness…_

He shoved. Hard.

She wasn't too close anymore; she was sprawled on the ground and staring up at him with fear in her eyes.

"You…tore my shirt," she said, voice sounding a bit odd as she looked where blood seeped through the tear at her elbow. Sherlock stared at the red stain, breathing hard. Then he turned and marched away.

His homeless network paid off. He proved Angelo was housebreaking at the time of the murders and nowhere near where they happened.

Anderson tried to punch him the next time he saw him, all blustering and male. Sherlock dodged and gloated, still on a high from solving the case. Sally watched it happen. Watched him explain how he used the homeless to track down the vital proof. Watched him prove himself right all along.

"Freak."

And if being right didn't quite feel as glorious is usual, well, emotions were useless, messy things. Better to ignore them completely.


	7. 5 Mycroft

**5. Mycroft**

"Well," the matriarch of the Holmes family declared with a smile of calm satisfaction, looking somehow regal and solid despite the frailty of her years, "Isn't this lovely? My boys are home, and their girls…"

"Of course, Mummy," Mycroft answered, always the good son, and for their mother's sake Sherlock didn't say anything to the contrary. Even if these family dinners could only be called pure torture. He supposed he could look on it as retribution; it wasn't as though he hadn't caused her even greater pain in the past.

"It's a pleasure to be here," Sherlock's 'date' added politely. Mummy gave Victoria a delighted smile.

"I'm so glad our Sherlock has finally decided to settle down," she declared, as though it were just the two of them in the room, "He was so troubled, for the longest time. It's a mother's greatest wish, you know, to see her children settled and happy."

"He's certainly the happiest I have known him," Vic answered, smiling fondly at the man they were discussing. This was most certainly true, of both of them, Sherlock thought. Victoria had only gotten lovelier with age and the proper hormone treatments. She was certainly softer than the last time Sherlock had seen her, calmer, more settled in her own skin. If Mummy knew that Victoria Trevor had started her life as Victor she made no notice of it, seeming delighted that Sherlock had obtained a girlfriend at all.

"And what about you, Mycroft, you always sound so tired these days," Mummy said, turning her attention to the other couple.

"We've had a bit of an incident," Mycroft's friend answered for him, "Everyone has been scrambling lately to fix it."

"So, do you two work at the same office, then?" Vic asked, studying them curiously.

"It's where I met Dorothea," Mycroft answered.

"Mikey offered me a drink at the office party, and we got to chatting," Dorothea elaborated. They both gave identical pleasant smiles, reaching to grasp each other's hands. Sherlock found the display nauseating. "And where did you two meet?" Dorothea asked, looking across the table towards Sherlock and Vic.

"Vic's dog bit me," Sherlock answered. At that, Mycroft's date gave him an interested look, but Sherlock didn't bother to elaborate.

"We were childhood sweethearts, I suppose you could say," Vic said for him, "Then we went our separate ways, of course, but we never did lose touch."

"How touching," Mycroft said, smiling with the eased practice of a politician, "Are we to hear wedding bells in the future?"

Sherlock glared while Vic turned bright pink.

"Mycroft, don't tease your brother," Mummy scolded, before looking hopefully towards her younger son, "You shouldn't wait too long, though, dear…I'd rather like to see my grandchildren before I go."

Victoria's face was quite fascinating to watch as the pink deepened into red, her lips twitching somewhere between laughter and horror.

"Mummy…you do know that Victoria…" Sherlock began hesitantly.

"There're always surrogates, dear," Mummy answered, as Sherlock's face started to redden. Mycroft looked far too delighted at the turn this conversation had taken. Dorothea still maintained polite interest.

"I'm sure the eldest should be the first to marry and procreate," Sherlock suggested, giving his brother a victorious glare once Mummy's interest returned to Mycroft and she could no longer see his expression while he willed his face to return to its usual color. It didn't help that Victoria had finally settled upon mirth and seemed to be having a fit into her napkin. It was bad enough to pull Mummy's attention back upon them.

"Are you quite alright, dear?" Mummy asked, "Perhaps you should help her out, Sherlock."

"Fine, fine," Vic managed to get out as she attempted to regain control of her face.

"And when do you intend to settle down, 'Mikey'?" Sherlock asked.

"I'm afraid I've put family on hold for a bit to work on my career. And how is your new business doing?"

"Did you start a new business?" Mummy asked, before Sherlock had a chance to scowl, "You never told me, Sherlock! Well, you'll just have to tell me now. Come now and tell me all about it. Does he do this with you, Victoria? He can be so secretive with his life."

"All the time," Vic answered, smiling fondly, "Well go on, Sher. Tell your mum about the business you created."

"I'm a consulting detective," he answered, sitting up slightly straighter, trying to radiate unconcern and confidence instead of the nervousness that had come unbidden to settle in his stomach.

"And what does a consulting detective do?" Mummy asked, "Is it like those private eyes in those novels your father used to like?"

"Not quite," Sherlock answered, "I help the police when they get out of their depth." Mummy frowned. Sherlock tried not to squirm.

"You mean you help catch criminals?" she asked, "Isn't that dangerous?"

"Hardly," Sherlock answered, "I leave them to do the actual capture; I just point them in the right direction." One more little white lie among many. Now if only everyone else would play along.

"Is that why you wound up in hospital with broken ribs?" Mycroft asked in a curious tone, as though he didn't already know all about every incident Sherlock got up to, "Pointing them in the right direction." Sherlock glared as the pleased smile on Mummy's face was slowly being overcome with concern.

"When were you in hospital?" she asked, "You should have called me."

"I didn't want to concern you; it was nothing," Sherlock answered, his eyes not leaving his brother, "Perhaps you should ask Mycroft about the safety in his 'minor government position'…how many assassination attempts did you prevent in the last year?"

"Don't alarm Mummy like that, Sherlock," his brother said sharply, before turning to look at her, "It wasn't me they were trying to assassinate." Only then did Sherlock see how pale Mummy was growing and he looked down, something unpleasant gnawing at his chest. For a moment there was no talking at all.

"Would you like me to play something?" Sherlock asked suddenly, breaking the silence, and Mummy's soft frown broke into a delighted smile.

"Would you?" she asked, "It's been so long since I heard you play."

"Perhaps a duet," Mycroft offered.

"Oh, fantastic," Dorothea said, "Let's arrange ourselves for the concert!" So the three woman settled themselves into their chairs while Mycroft took his place at the piano and Sherlock retrieved his violin.

"It has been a while. Our old Christmas routine?" Mycroft asked lightly as Sherlock took a moment to tune his instrument.

"Simple," Sherlock answered abruptly, "Are you out of practice, dear brother?"

"My instrument doesn't fit around my neck," he answered and before Sherlock could reply he started in with the Nutcracker Suite and Sherlock had to follow or be left out completely. By the end of the impromptu concert, Mummy was practically glowing and a good deal of Sherlock's resentment had settled into something far more content. This was familiar. This was good. Of course it didn't last.

After the music and applause and more drinks were passed around, they settled down again for conversation. This time, Mummy wandered off with their 'dates' with promises of baby pictures and womanly talk, leaving Sherlock and Mycroft to their own corner. Sherlock knew this was not a good plan, not at all a good plan, but he never could deny Mummy anything. If she wanted to go and tell embarrassing stories to his closest friend, then so be it, and if she wanted him and Mycroft to bond…they could at least pretend.

"Fingers feeling sore?" Sherlock asked smugly when he noticed Mycroft flexing them.

"As you said, it's been a while," he answered, not put out at all. Then suddenly he was looking quite serious and a bit foreboding as he leaned in closer, his voice going quiet to keep it from carrying over to where the women sat giggling over something or other. "Sherlock," he said, "This latest charade…your friend seems very nice."

"My girlfriend," Sherlock insisted, despite knowing that Mycroft had already seen through that.

"Would it be so objectionable, if she were?" he asked.

"And what of you and 'Dorothea'?" Sherlock demanded, "Shall we be getting a happy announcement anytime soon?"

"This isn't about me," he answered, infuriatingly calm, "I've at least tried dating."

"I'm not interested," Sherlock hissed, "I've told you this. I'm asexual." Mycroft sighed, giving him that look of concerned disappointment that he had no right to be feeling. It wasn't as though he was father, after all.

"There are people you can talk to," Mycroft tried again, "They can help you. I'm sure your friend wouldn't mind…"

"I don't need help," Sherlock answered furiously, though still attempting to keep his voice down so as to not draw attention to them, "I don't need a girlfriend. Or a boyfriend. I don't need anyone."

"I know something happened," Mycroft answered sharply, suddenly sounding angry himself, "The way you started flinching at every attempted touch. I know someone hurt you." Sherlock found himself shrinking away from the unexpected fury radiating out of Mycroft's every pore, despite the fact that none of it seemed directed at him.

"That was the drugs," Sherlock insisted, forcing himself to stop shying away like a traumatized puppy. Mycroft took a deep breath and visibly forced himself to relax and let it go.

"Well," he said, "Just give it some thought. Please. And give Victoria a chance."

"Vic doesn't want a relationship, anymore than I do," Sherlock insisted.

"If you truly believe that," Mycroft answered, "Then you are even more naïve about relationships than you like to play at being." Across the room, Victoria was looking at him, a radiant smile making her face glow as Mummy shared something in a conspiratory voice.

"She deserves someone who wants her," Sherlock said, more to himself than his brother.

"Perhaps," Mycroft replied, "But so do you."

Author's Note: Finally! I've finished the last of the five. It went in completely a different direction than I first imagined, but I think I quite like where I got to, in the end. Now all I have left is the +1 and I can mark this story off as complete.


	8. 1 John

**+1. John**

Sherlock wasn't going to make the same mistakes he made with Sally. When the subject came up again, said he was married to his work. John said it was all fine.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Everyone at the yard thought there had to be something between them but Donovan was the only one to corner John and ask outright. The drink in her hand might have had something to do with it, or it could have been an excuse for something she intended to do anyway.

"So…you and the fr…Sherlock?" Somehow, they had a table together in the corner. Sherlock was around, arguing with someone from forensics who wasn't Anderson and who actually seemed to get on with Sherlock a bit. Surprisingly, the forensics guy didn't even look like he wanted to be rescued; Lestrade had already intruded on them twice to berate them for discussing work in their down time and neither had taken the chance to escape. It didn't look like anyone was inclined to rescue John from Donovan.

"We're friends," John tried to tell her. She was leaning on her elbows, her stance slightly flirtatious without being too forward. People would probably talk, later, about John and Sally's 'secret tryst'. People always talked.

"I knew he was gay," she said, not seeming to listen to a word he was saying, "Just make sure he isn't using you. Leading you on, you know? He uses people."

"He helps people," John answered, nursing his own drink and feeling a bit uncomfortable. A beautiful woman was leaning towards him over a table and she seemed genuinely concerned for him. If that concern hadn't taken the form of trying to warn him off his friend, he might have even felt inclined to chat her up.

"Have you met his homeless network?" she asked, her voice low and a bit angry, but also a bit sad.

"Yes, actually," John answered, and she nodded, as though that proved her point.

"I know how he can be. He sweeps in, seeming so…beyond us. Strong, tall…sees more than he should, looks like he'd break if you touched him wrong...I know…"

"Er…" Perhaps she had drunk more than John had thought.

"You know, he told me he was asexual. That he doesn't have sex. Like that's a thing. I may not be a super freak but I do know something of bio-blogical-bile…about life. He couldn't just tell me he was gay; he had to…had to…he uses people. He'll use you, John, use you all up."

John stood, startling her with his abruptness into falling back into her chair, her drink sloshing and eyes wide. John suddenly felt a bit foolish despite the anger that still coursed through him, unexpected as it was intense, and sat down again so that he wasn't towering over her. He could see that she didn't meant to be cruel.

"Asexual is a 'thing', actually. And I'm telling you that as a doctor. There are people who truly have no interest in sex. And to answer your first question, Sherlock isn't having sex with me. He's my friend. So thank you for your concern, but it really isn't necessary."

Then he stood again and left her alone, still looking slightly stunned. Sherlock was talking excitedly about mud, his eyes alight with interest. He broke into a full on smile when he saw John, urging him to a nearby bench to introduce him to Raj from forensics who was listening to Sherlock with almost worshipful awe.

The next time John looked around, he saw Lestrade had joined Donovan's table. They were both leaning into each other and Donovan was smiling.

All in all, it wasn't a bad evening out.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Sebastian Wilkes reminded John of a shark. There was something hungry about him, something predatory in his smiles. It made John's fingers twitch for a gun he didn't have on him. It made him want to drag Sherlock for cover.

It was unpleasant, therefore, to suddenly run into the man again when Sherlock had sent him to a small café for a case. It was unexpected; the café was in the neighborhood of Wilkes's bank, but even so, the banker certainly hadn't been on his mind. It was even more startling that Sebastian Wilkes had recognized him and immediately sat down in the chair opposite. Sherlock wasn't there, pursuing a different lead.

"John Wilson, was it?" he said as he sat, uninvited.

"Watson." He couldn't quite bring himself to be so rude as to tell the other man to go away, but he could limit his response. Unfortunately, Wilkes didn't seem inclined to take the hint.

"And how is Sherlock these days? You are still together?"

"We're doing very well together, thank you. How is your window?" And if the statement implied things between him and Sherlock that weren't there…well…John didn't care enough about Sebastian Wilkes to correct his thinking. There were worse things than being thought in a relationship with a brilliant genius. Wilkes leaned in a bit in a way eerily similar to Donovan but without the genuine concern.

"You know, we all thought Freak needed a shag. He always said he was X, you know, but he was so wound up. We tried to set him up once; had a girl willing and waiting, and the Freak actually punched her when she tried to go down on him. Nearly gave her a nosebleed. Lucky I was there to console her."

"Sorry?" John asked, his expression stony. For a moment, the leer on Wilkes's face faltered. He recovered himself quickly though.

"Well…I just wanted to say I'm glad he's finally loosened up a bit. Learned to let go. Should have known a girl wouldn't do it for him…maybe I should have tried myself. He always was a bit of a prude though; probably would have turned me down. He left soon after, anyway. Did drugs, I hear. A real shame. Did he ever tell you?"

The expression he gave John was one of anticipation and glee mixed with charm. If Donovan's words had caused a spark of anger to flare up, Wilkes's created a bonfire. It didn't show, not in the ways anger usually surfaces, in red faces and furious shouting. If it had shown, Wilkes might have realized the danger he was in.

"Maybe I should have tried anyway. You know how it is; for their own good, really. If anyone ever needed to relax, it was the…"

John didn't quite know how it happened. One moment, Sebastian Wilkes was leaning towards him, practically flirting, and the next John was standing and Wilkes was on the floor, clutching his nose. People were staring, startled.

"Bastard broke my dose!" Then Wilkes was pulling himself up, one hand held over his bloody nose and the other clinched as he glared at John in fury. "Do you have andy idea who I ab? You will pay!"

"No." John's voice was low but biting, clipped. "No. You do not sit here and calmly tell me that you wish you had raped my friend. You do not tell me that you did have a friend try and rape him. I know exactly who you are. You are Sebastian Wilkes, a bully, a worm, a disease upon society…"

Wilkes swung at him, furious. The next moment, John had him kneeling on the ground, arm held firmly behind his back. And John leaned in to whisper in his ear, ignoring the startled and alarmed looks of everyone around them.

"Now meet me. John Watson, army surgeon, served in Afghanistan and friend to Sherlock Holmes. Now, you are going to get up and you are going to leave. You will go back to your bank and your small minded ways and you will never cross our path again. Because if you don't...if you try to come after either of us…just be careful that the 'Freak' doesn't decide to investigate you. How clean is your closet?" He leaned in even closer, his voice going even lower. "And if you even think of touching him again, I will be there. And I will take. You. Down."

He let him go and stepped back. Wilkes stumbled slowly to his feet, looking ghastly with the blood coating his face and staining his collar. For the first time since John had met the man, he no longer saw that hungry look. He saw fear, deep and primal, the look of a predator who had met his match.

"John?" Sherlock was standing in the doorway, looking uncertainly back and for the between them. "Seb?" Wilkes looked at him, then looked away quickly. Two police officers suddenly arrived.

Wilkes mumbled something at them about a misunderstanding and practically ran out the door. They asked John to leave anyway.

"John?" Sherlock asked again once they were standing outside on the pavement.

"A misunderstanding," John said. Sherlock was still staring, looking puzzled, but he accepted that, for the moment.

"I found the painting's frame…" he said, his hesitance slowly melting into his usual exuberance as he explained what he had discovered and what it meant.

"Brilliant," John said at the end of it, and then they were running.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The first John heard of Sherlock's friend was the day she arrived at the airport. He was still a bit in shock from the revelation that Sherlock had a friend, an actual friend who wasn't John who had put up with him and who Sherlock liked and called 'friend' back.

Victoria turned out to be quieter than he expected, more scholarly than adventurous. She was good at conversations though, able to keep up with Sherlock's quick tongue, and didn't get offended when Sherlock was being awkwardly blunt. She didn't seem to know how to take John.

"I am happy…you know…that he has you," she said one day, when they were alone. And she did seem genuinely happy. "I had thought, for the longest time, I had thought he'd always be alone. I had wanted him, once, you know." John almost felt bad for having to set her straight.

"We don't have a relationship…not like that. We're friends."

"But you are good together. Not all relationships have to be about sex, you know. It took me a long time to figure that out."

"No…but it can be nice." This time, it was John who was leaning in closer, one hand resting on hers. She looked surprised, then pleased. Sherlock found them later on the sofa, sitting close and giggling over a story Vic was telling him about Sherlock. The man they were just talking about was now looking back and forth at the two of them, something vulnerable about his expression despite the slight upturn of his lips in response to their giggles.

"I see you're…getting on," he said.

"Oh, come here," John growled when Sherlock looked like he was going to scuttle off again to leave them alone, and he grabbed the man around the waist, pulling him down between them, half in their laps.

Sherlock never told John he was asexual. John stopped correcting people who thought they were in a relationship. Because sometimes, it really is all fine.

The End

Except for an epilogue to come.


End file.
